Today I will tell a sad story about an older lady.
When I was little, probably around the age of eight, I asked my mother what kind of music soul music was. She told me that it was the kind of music I like. She told me what I liked as a definition of soul music.
So I saw this lady in sneakers. Always this lady in sneakers, I say, and always faintly smiling, I say, more or less. Just to be sure, I suppose, that absolutely no one would ever see her with a grim look on her face.
She looks a little bit familiar. I must say. It has something to do with butterflies. And that I just decided that money is not everything. Money is never enough, so I prefer reading, as I saw a nice gentleman today with a linen bag with the words: Read! As if this is your last day.
Read until I know what art I need to steal. Read until I know how to title my last three works. Read until I know what is important. I am sitting in the late sun. Someone needs to answer the phone.
The mountain is occupied by pieridae. She is wearing shorts too.
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